


leonard bernstein

by Reiaji



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: And Adrien as the most lovestruck fool in the universe, F/M, Ladrien | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Love Letters, Once again starring Marinette as her own wingman, Pre-reveal with eventual partial reveal, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24998821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiaji/pseuds/Reiaji
Summary: The anonymous confession in Adrien’s locker matches the handwriting on Ladybug's valentine. With Marinette’s encouragement, he takes a leap of faith.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 45
Kudos: 365





	leonard bernstein

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place at some unspecified point in S3; after Dark Cupid, Glaciator, and Backwarder, but before Desperada. 
> 
> Betaed by [ Bren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrenanaBread/pseuds/BrenanaBread), thank you so much!

_Dearest you,_

_This is the second time I’ve written you this letter, but I couldn’t give up on the hope that you might feel about me the same way I feel about you. When you love someone, you must never hold back from telling them when you have the chance, because one day you might realize that it’s too late and that all your hopes and dreams are ruined, with no way to go back in time and do it over._

_I hope that you’ll allow my words to make my way to your heart, and that you’ll give me a chance to prove to you how true they really are. I love you._

  


* * *

  


The envelope is taped to the back wall of his locker, about eye-level when he stoops to get to his textbooks. It's the color of candy, bright blush pink. _TO ADRIEN_ , it reads; in tall capitals that jostle for space, as though they’re trying too hard to stand up straight.

“Looks like some girl at school has a crush on you,” says Plagg. “Or some boy, maybe. Might be nice for a change of pace.”

Adrien turns the letter over, looking for a signature. There’s none, but the author is easy enough to guess—her cramped letters and crimson ink are as familiar to him as the shape of his own name. 

“It’s _her,_ ” he whispers. “It’s the girl who sent me that card on Valentine’s.”

“What, the one that you thought was from _Ladybug?_ ” Plagg phases out of Adrien’s bookbag and settles on his shoulder, a featherlight weight. “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get over her? She’s already turned you down like, a million times.” 

_Twice,_ he thinks unhelpfully. _She’s turned me down twice._

“Just look, Plagg,” he says, thrusting the letter forward. His kwami twitches, and he withdraws it hastily, clutching its bright pink stationery to his chest. 

“The handwriting is the same, and so is the paper. It's gotta be her. That’s what she means by _the second time,_ right?”

“Too bad it’s not signed!” says Plagg, a little too loudly. “I guess you’ll never know who it’s from. Too bad, so sad.”

All too familiar with the sting of disappointment—like a burn gone shiny with time and age—Adrien runs his thumb along the neat lines of script.

“You're right,” he says, speaking lightly over the burr in his stomach. “I guess not.”

It doesn’t stop him from reading the letter again; line by line and letter by letter, until he’s committed every word to memory.

  


* * *

  


With Glaciator behind them, the truth is all too easy to recall. 

Ladybug doesn’t love him back. She loves someone else—someone better—someone _worthy,_ and Adrien isn’t _someone_ , for all the weight of his heartache. But he can't help but do what he's always done best: wish and wonder, wait and worry, until it feels like there's an anvil strung around his neck. 

_What if?_ is the awful thought that overtakes him. _What if it is her, and I never respond?_

_What if it **is** her, and I just never **know?**_

He can't go to Nino—not for something like this. Nino can sit through a three-hour movie with Alya draped across his lap. He can kiss her on the curb before she walks home from school, and when she snatches away his glasses, he has the nerve to laugh in her face. Nino in love is so damn _functional_ , Adrien can’t possibly benefit from his advice. 

No, it's Marinette that he needs to ask. After all, she's had her own experiences with heartbreak—and though he isn't certain what she thinks of him these days, he's _reasonably_ sure she won't make fun of him.

Sitting on the steps in a sky blue dress, Marinette stands out like a beautiful sore thumb. Her hair is styled differently to usual; in a long French braid that tapers to the small of her back, tied off at the end with a bright red ribbon.Contrary to all reason, his pulse jumps in place. 

“Girl, come on,” he hears Alya whisper. “Did you do it or not? It’s a yes or no question.”

“No,” says Marinette, her face in her hands. The tips of her ears are pink beneath her hair. “I mean yes—I mean _no_ —I mean _yes,_ I did it without chickening out, but _no,_ I didn’t get to—I mean, I forgot to—” 

Adrien is just about to speak when Marinette catches sight of him. She shrieks, and her backpack goes tumbling out of her lap. Pencils and erasers fly in all directions, and Alya ducks to avoid a stray textbook.

Showing next to no concern for her possessions, Marinette bolts upright and scrambles to her feet.

“Hey,” he says uncertainly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alya duck behind him—miming something inscrutable at Marinette, who flushes. “Marinette, if you’ve got a minute, could I ask you for your advice?” 

Alya, still mouthing, beats it to the far side of the steps. 

“Ask me—oh! Yeah, sure!” Marinette peers up at him, pale as death. “What did you want me to talk—I mean, what did _you_ want to talk to _me_ about?”

Taking a deep breath, he lifts a hand to his chest, smoothing over the letter where it’s tucked into his shirt. Marinette watches him do it, her smile stretching sideways like a Glasgow grin.

“How do you write a letter?” he blurts at last. Marinette’s hand-wringing increases in intensity. 

“Hmm? There’s, heh, there’s no way I know anything about—”

“How do you write a letter to the girl you’re in love with?” he repeats. “The girl who means more to you than anyone else in the world?”

For a moment, Marinette does nothing but stare. Her face is stiff as setting plaster, but her lips are still stretched over the skeleton of a grin.

“The girl you’re in love with?” she says, voice small—and then her face crumples, and she takes a step back. 

Despite his heightened state of anxiety, Adrien notices the change in her posture. Before he can summon the courage to reach for her, Marinette shies away with a jerk of her shoulders.

“Marinette? Are you okay?”

“Beachy! I mean, peachy—oh—yeah, Adrien, I’m fine.” Her smile returns, a little bit watery. “Why are you asking? Is it for someone I know?”

“No,” he says hastily. “No, I just—I really like this girl, and I thought she didn’t like me back, but recently she did something that maybe says otherwise, and now I can’t stop thinking about it and I just—”

He clears his throat. His voice is rough with earnestness and nervousness both.

“I just want to know if she’d give me a shot. If she’d maybe...give me a chance to get to know her, one way or another.”

Marinette is silent for another long minute, her nails punching crescents into the flesh of her upper arms.

“Marinette?” he says tentatively, and her eyes snap back to his. 

“To tell you the truth, I’m not the best person to ask. None of my love letters have ever worked.” She isn’t really looking at him—isn’t really looking at _anything,_ despite the frenetic edge to her focus. “But I’m sure it’ll work out great for you, Adrien! If she feels the same way, then she’ll let you know, one way or another.”

Before Adrien can ask what she means, she snatches her backpack from the ground and straightens. 

"I just remembered I have to—feed my hamster! I mean—my aunt's hamster. She's on vacation in New York and she asked me to—y'know what, I'm gonna go! Bye, Adrien. It was nice getting to talk to you.”

"Wait—" He starts after her, bewildered by her change in mood. "Marinette, wait! I’ll see you tomorrow at school?”

But Marinette leaves too quickly to follow. In a swirl of sky-blue skirts, she's gone—and Adrien is alone in the shadow of the doorway, a stitch in his side and a knot in his throat.  


  


* * *

  


The first draft of his letter is six pages long, single-spaced and double-sided.

The second is only one—short, sweet, and desperate.

He’s half an hour late for their usual Friday patrol, but Ladybug barely looks up at his approach. Perched on a rooftop, legs dangling beneath her, she hunches into herself like a crab into its shell. At once, a wave of unease overtakes him. 

“ _Bonsoir,_ my lady. Had a bad day at school?”

“Something like that,” she mumbles in response. He hesitates, unsure what to make of her silence.

“I really shouldn’t talk about it, okay, Chat Noir? Why are you so late? Is something wrong?”

“You know, it doesn't matter,” he starts to hedge—but Ladybug catches sight of the envelope in his hand, and her eyes grow wide as she sits up straight. 

In a burst of sheer panic, he thrusts it forward, pinning a toothy grin to his face. 

“Fanmail from Françoise Dupont!” he says cheerfully. “One of the kids I walked home from school asked me to deliver it.” 

Slowly, without so much as a blink, Ladybug plucks the envelope out of his hand. She extracts his letter—only a little bit wrinkled—and smooths it out in her lap to read it.

Adrien looks on, brimming with nervousness, as her expression shifts through several distinct phases: first shock, then bewilderment, then an utterly terrifying _blankness._ She flips the letter over to read the name of the sender—and every inch of her body _freezes,_ as though the very sight has transformed her to stone. 

His stomach does a useless little flip. He certainly hadn’t forgotten to sign _his._

“Well?” he asks, all squeaky brightness. “What did it say? Anything interesting?”

Ladybug jumps, crumples the envelope, and wrestles her yo-yo from its place at her hip, shoving Adrien’s confession inside. 

“ _Nothing!”_ she exclaims. “Just some—heh—some fanboy of mine. You know how it goes. It’s no big deal.”

She may as well have punched him in the kidney. His throat seals up, as though he’s swallowed a mouthful of tar, and he blinks to stop his eyes from watering. The feeling isn’t all too dissimilar to the time he’d been hit with a Cataclysm in the ribs. 

“It's not?” he asks, before he has the better sense to stop himself. With no warning whatsoever, Ladybug scrambles up onto her feet. 

“C’mon, kitty, let’s go. I really want to wrap up patrol before dark.”

“But I—” He’s stuttering now, in a way _Chat Noir_ never does, and it’s enough to make his partner turn towards him in concern. He flounders, racking his wits for an excuse. 

“It’s just… I-I thought you liked writing back to your fans? I’m visiting the school again tomorrow, so…” He stands and bows, a little jerkier than usual. “Your corres _paw_ ndence would be safe in my hands, bug.”

Ladybug lifts her chin, and for one soul-sapping instant, he’s certain that she can see right through him. But the pun must be enough to mask his anxiety, because all she does is reach out and flick his bell. 

“Thanks, chaton, but your _delivery_ leaves something to be desired. Forget about this one. I can handle him myself.”

With that, she leaps off the edge of the rooftop and swings across the intersection below, vanishing over a skyline cluttered with smokestacks. Adrien, for the _life_ of him, can’t focus on the route—and the second or third time he gets stuck on a weathercock, Ladybug decides to end patrol early.

  


* * *

  


_I’m the biggest idiot in Paris,_ he thinks to himself, as he limps his way home and drops to his bedroom floor, biting his lip to stop his eyes from stinging.

 _In France,_ he’s decided by the time he drifts off to sleep, curled into a ball to avoid crowding Plagg, who’s sprawled across his sheets like an unruly housecat. 

_In the **world** , _he thinks again, first thing in the morning, staring out the window as he’s driven to school. He usually looks forward to going to class, but today, all he can think of is his newest rejection.

(How arrogant _was_ he, to think that Ladybug had turned him down because she was secretly in love with his civilian self? At least he knewthat she cared about Chat Noir. Who could _Adrien_ be to the Hero of Paris, besides a pretty face in the nighttime lights?)

So naturally—when Adrien yanks open his locker to find a _second_ pink envelope taped to the wall—he reacts by falling flat on his ass.

He looks to his right: no one else present. He looks to his left: the locker room door is shut. For once, he’s grateful that Nathalie had made him late.

Pulse pounding, he retrieves the envelope and pries up the flap with the edge of his thumbnail. With trembling hands, he tears it open, fishing out the sheet of paper inside.

 _Adrien,_ she’s written, in lucky red ink, _you’ve made me happier than you can possibly imagine._  
  
(Adrien’s heartbeat thuds in his throat, and for a heady instant, his vision blurs.) 

_I’m so glad you got my confession. **Both** of my confessions. I've wanted to tell you for the longest time, but I’ve never worked up the courage to do it face to face. _

(His mouth is dry, and his hands—they _shake._ )  
  
_I’d really like to get to know you, and I’d like for you to know me, too. Why don't I start? I love to draw and sew. My favorite color is pink. There’s lots of places in the city I like, but one of my favorites is the café with the blue roof on the Rue de la Folie Méricourt._  
  
_What about you? Write back, if you can. Leave your response in your locker for me._  
  
He flips over the page to look for a signature; but just as expected, the letter is unsigned.

All throughout first and second period, it sits inside the pocket of his shirt. He can't stand to wait until he gets home to reread it, so he excuses himself between biology and maths, spending ten minutes hunched over in a stall with the letter spread across his lap.

 _She likes to draw,_ he thinks to himself that night; as they wind down patrol with an early evening walk. Ladybug looks as unflappable as ever—no blush of excitement across her cheeks, no telltale jitter to her steps. He thinks of her fingers stained with ink beneath the red-and-black of her gloves, and he drops his coffee into the gutter.

Ladybug laughs at him. Usually he'd laugh with her—or fake-pout until she relented—but instead he stands there, red-faced and silent, until her amusement at his expense turns into concern.

 _She likes the Méricourt café_ , he thinks the next morning, as he crams his binders into his satchel and clambers into the car to be driven to school. It's suddenly so _easy_ to imagine her there: his ghost-faced girl with the bright blue eyes, sketching on a tablet with a pastry at her elbow, her nose scrunched up in that familiar expression she always gets when she’s thinking hard.

 _She likes pink_ , is the last of his tumbleweed thoughts, as the bell finally frees him from the humdrum of class. As per her directions, he leaves his response letter taped inside his locker door. From his satchel, he extracts a single pink rose, freshly pilfered from the foyer that morning.

He rests it on top of a stack of books, level with his eye line and impossible to miss.

"Kid,” says Plagg, from his nest in Adrien’s collar, “this is exactly the kind of stupid idea that'll get you into trouble with Fu."

"I'm not doing anything wrong," he whispers, meticulously fluffing the petals of the rose. "We’re just talking about—I mean, it’s not really even personal stuff, right? Just like—what cafés she likes, and stuff like that.”

"Is _that_ what you’re talking about? _Ew,_ Adrien.” 

“What’s the big deal? Nobody has to know. Nobody even knows that there's a girl I actually like.” He shuts his locker, stealing a furtive glance at the door. "I mean, there’s Marinette, but I'm sure I can trust her."

“Right,” Plagg replies, in a tone dry as dust. “Your good friend, Marinette. Your best buddy. Your chum.”

“Yes?” says Adrien blankly. “She’s my friend? What about it?”

But Plagg has already burrowed down into his shirt, out of sight and out of mind.

  


* * *

  


The next day, the rose has vanished from Adrien’s locker—the letter with it, tape and all. Resting atop his textbooks is a third pink envelope, identical to the two that had come before it.

“Breathe, kitten,” says Plagg, clearly amused, as Adrien snatches it and works his fingernails under the flap.

 _Thank you for your response, and the rose_. _I don’t have anything as beautiful for you, but I wanted to repay your gift in kind. Have you been to the boutique around the corner from Collège Françoise Dupont? Stop by after school if you have time. I left you something in my name._  
  
“After school,” he says under his breath. “Fencing’s been pushed back by half an hour. I’ll just run down the block before Gorilla gets here.”

“How lucky,” drawls Plagg, peering at the pink paper. “I wonder how _Ladybug_ knows where you’ll be. Maybe she has your schedule hung in her room, covered in sparkles and little pink hearts.”

But Adrien is too distracted to take his teasing to heart. The rest of the day is spent fidgeting in class, unable to look at the blackboard or his books without the words blurring together into inky soup.

The second the bell rings, he’s out the front door, using the handrail as a support to parkour down the empty stairs. His pulse quickens as he approaches the door of the boutique, satchel hugged to his chest like a shield.

“How can I help you?” says the girl behind the checkout. “Anything in particular catch your eye?”

Timidly, Adrien approaches the register.

“Do you—do you maybe—have something for me?” he blurts. Draped over the counter like a sunning python, the cashier peers back at him, chin in hand.

“Do you work with that girl who was here at lunch? She said someone else would come to collect.”

When he simply stands there, too stunned to react, she takes pity and slouches over to the back counter, vanishing into a colorful riot of glossy leaves and artfully trimmed blossoms.

She reappears with a vase the size of a pitcher, huffing as she slams it onto the counter between them. The arrangement is almost half a meter tall—heavy enough that she needs both hands to carry it. Adrien catches a glimpse of sunny yellow petals, barely visible behind a sheath of pink plastic.

“Here you go. One custom arrangement, for—” She peers at the tag attached to the vase. “Luigi Boccherini? That’s you?”

 _LB_ , he thinks, with a giddy sort of dizziness, and nearly folds in half over the counter in his bid to get the girl’s attention.

“That’s mine! That’s my order. What do I owe you?”

“Hm? The other kid paid in advance.”

“Oh,” he stammers. “Right—well, thanks anyway.”

“Hold on,” says the girl, wrinkling her nose at him from behind the bouquet. “I _swear_ I’ve seen your face somewhere before. Aren’t you like—a child actor or something?”

“Thanks again for the flowers _,_ ” says Adrien hastily. He hoists the huge arrangement and exits right, leaving a faint trail of scuff marks on the shiny linoleum floor.

Several blocks away, he grinds to a stop. The plastic sheath holds six sleepy sunflowers: each one flawless, petals yellow and silky, framed by leaves so glossy and green they look as though they’re sculpted from wax.

 _Your hair shines like the sun,_ he suddenly recalls, from the heart-shaped card locked inside his desk drawer. _Your eyes are gorgeous green._

He slides down to the sidewalk, hugging the bouquet against his chest, and hides his red face amidst the sweet-smelling petals.

  


* * *

  


Ladybug’s bouquet spends the night in Adrien’s locker. Taking it with him is out of the question—an arrangement this size is bound to be expensive, and Nathalie would certainly question him about the source. It's the first thing to greet him when he arrives the next day: six perfect sunflowers, yellow and green, their garrulous faces searching for sun. 

“Are those _flowers?_ ” says Alya, craning her neck. “It’s been months since Valentine’s, and you’re still getting gifts?”

"Nope," he squeaks. “No, not at all, these are just—”

“Who are they from? Anyone special?” 

Even with Alya peering over his shoulder, the very sight of the sunflowers warms him. Maybe this is exactly what Ladybug wants—for her gift to be too big and too beautiful to hide. 

“They came from an admirer," he admits at last. “She leaves me notes in my locker sometimes."

“An _admirer?_ ” says Alya, her brows drawing together. “And you have no problem with not knowing who she is?"

Adrien opens his mouth—and then snaps it shut. Alya seems to take it as permission to continue.

“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she just come talk to you face to face?” She reaches past him, fishing out the tag attached to the rim of the vase. “Or he _,_ I guess. Luigi Boccherini.”

“It’s not her real name,” says Adrien meekly. “I’m pretty sure it’s a stand-in for her initials.”

Alya raises her eyebrows questioningly. 

"Boccherini was a cellist and a classical composer.” He pinches the tag from between her fingers, tucking it back into the vase of flowers. “He died two hundred years ago, he’s not a living person.”

It makes sense to _him_ —perfect sense, actually—but his confidence wavers as Alya stares back at him, head cocked and hand on hip. 

“Adrien, not to call you a nerd, but only someone like you would know that.”

“But she knew that _I’d_ know, so that’s the main thing, right?”

"Look," says Alya, "to be totally honest, the whole thing is kind of suspicious. If this girl really likes you, then why can't she just text you? Why doesn't she date you like a normal person? I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but it seems to me like she’s just trying to mess with you.”

The air turns to ash in Adrien’s lungs. He glances back at the sunflowers, with their big, beautiful faces, and suppresses the sudden pang in his stomach. 

"No, she isn’t—LB isn’t like that.” 

"But wouldn’t it be better to know for certain?”

"What do you mean?" he asks with trepidation. Alya pushes up the bridge of her glasses.

“I mean, it’s probably someone at school, right? All we have to do is hide in one of the lockers, and then we’ll be able to catch her in the act.”

Adrien bites back a sudden spike of panic. Despite Alya’s happily taken status—six months into dating, she and Nino are rock solid—she _is_ the proprietor of the city’s biggest fanblog, and part of him suspects that she’s as smitten with Ladybug as he is. 

“Alya, I don’t think that’s a good idea? What if she's just shy? I can't put her on the spot like that.” 

“Adrien, you’re way too nice for your own good. Shouldn't we find out how she knows all this stuff about you?” Clearly mistaking the source of his anxiety, Alya gives his arm a friendly pat. “Let me at least look into it, okay? Marinette would neverforgive me if I let you get hurt.”

  


* * *

  


Adrien does notlet Alya _look into it._

Adrien tails Alya all throughout lunch and up until the bell releases them from class, trying in vain to feel out her plans—or, failing that, discretely dissuade her from exposing his admirer’s identity. He has precious little success, and once the bell finally rings, he finds himself standing shamefacedly beside her, waiting for the locker room to empty.

For a stakeout, it’s more than a little claustrophobic. And it certainly doesn't _help_ that Plagg is with him, doing his uncooperative best to phase out of his shirt.

“I brought snacks,” Alya whispers from the next locker over. “Do you want one? We might be stuck here for a while.”

“When did you have the time to get _snacks?_ ”

“A reporter is always prepared,” comes the answer—followed by a rusty-sounding squeak. Adrien sticks his hand out through the seam of the open door, and a pack of wafer cookies is deposited inside it. 

He’s halfway through it when Alya hisses, then starts drumming her fingers on the adjacent wall.

“Stop chewing! I hear footsteps. I think someone’s coming.”

Adrien freezes, swallowing a lump of stickiness into his stomach. 

A minute later, their caution is rewarded. The slight figure that creeps into the locker room is casually dressed in jeans and sweats, with the hood of a black sweatshirt pulled down over their hair. They cross the length of the room to reach Adrien’s locker, hunching over and twisting the familiar dial. 

Adrien’s heartbeat starts to hammer. How on _earth_ did she arrive so fast? Was she waiting nearby? Outside the front doors? Is Ladybug a _student_ at Adrien’s _school?_   
  
It’s _then_ that Plagg—who’s scrabbling at his chest—decides to let loose with a thunderous belch. 

The intruder whirls to face them, the incriminating pink envelope dangling from their fingertips. Adrien’s mouth falls open in shock.

“ _Nino?_ ” splutters Alya. She topples out of her hiding place and marches forward, glasses askew where they’re perched on her nose. 

“ _Alya_? _”_

“ _You’re_ Adrien’s weird admirer?” Alya demands, as Adrien—arms akimbo and legs bent like pipe cleaners—tumbles out of his locker behind her. Nino, frozen, blinks back at her owlishly. 

“It’s not that weird,” he says at last. “Adrien _is_ my hottest friend.”

As touching as that confession is, Adrien can’t help but crane his neck, looking for the all-important envelope. Nino, spotting him, shoves it hastily under his shirt.

“I’myour hottest friend,” says Alya disbelievingly. “I’m also your _girlfriend,_ in case you’d forgotten. And I knowit wasn’t _you_ who bought those flowers, so tell us why you’ve been playing Cupid.”

The stunned expression fades from Nino’s face, to be replaced by one of concentrated stubbornness.

“Can’t.”

“Can’t, or _won’t?”_

“Both,” says Nino firmly. “I love you, Alya, but this is top secret.” 

“You’ve been delivering my letters?” he interrupts, squeezing his satchel to stop himself from fidgeting. Plagg wriggles, disgruntled at being squashed, and he shifts it discreetly against his chest. “Can you take one back for me now? I’ve got it here—it’s in my bag—“

He fishes through his bookbag and extracts his own letter, holding it out in both hands. Nino looks from him to Alya, and a sudden shadow falls across his face. 

“Dude,” he whispers, in a soft little voice. “Oh man. I think I’m about to have bad news for you.”

Adrien barely hears him, at first. He feels like one of those shiny tinfoil balloons sold to tourists during the Heroes’ Day parade, light as air and just as buoyant, prone to lifting straight off his feet without the mortal realm to ground him.

“Bad news?” asks Alya. Nino peers at her from inside his hood, nervously tugging the strings of his sweatshirt. 

“So the thing is, uh, about Adrien’s admirer…I _promised_ her I wouldn’t let anyone catch me doing this.” If he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs. “She was _really_ explicit that things stay secret. It’s like—well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s sort of a personal safety thing.”

Alya looks even more perplexed than before, but Adrien hesitates, his giddiness thinning.

“I’m, uh—“ Nino clears his throat. “I’m gonna have to tell her that I can’t do this for her anymore.”

The air in his body turns to lead, and a cold wash of fear descends upon him.

“Don’t worry, Adrien,” Nino amends hastily. “Maybe I won’t be able to bring stuff to school for you, but it’s not a big deal, right? She could always just send her stuff to your house.”

“It _is_ a big deal,” he says, throat tight. “Nathalie goes through all my mail. If she sends it through the post, I’ll never get it.” 

Nino plucks his envelope out of his grip, handing him Ladybug’s pink one in return. 

“Bro, this girl is _really_ smart. If she’s serious about you, then she’ll find another way.”

 _If she’s serious about me?_ As sweet and sincere as her letters have been, there's simply no _basis_ for Ladybug to love him with the same intensity that Adrien loves her. What if she's upset with him? Or worse, _angry?_ All she has to do is stop responding, and he’ll be in exactly the same place as he started.

With a meaningful glance at Alya, Nino reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly. “Try not to worry about it over the weekend, yeah? You won’t hear back from her until Monday, anyway.” 

  


* * *

  


But when Adrien returns to school the next week, there's no return letter taped to his locker door.

Quietly, he sifts through his neat stacks of school books, searching for anywhere the envelope could be—tucked behind a binder, or slotted inside a workbook, or pushed against the back wall, behind the bag containing his fencing gear. But as far as he can tell, his locker is undisturbed. A wave of trepidation liquifies his guts. 

"I don't think there's anything in there, dude," says Nino, around the second or third time he sifts through his belongings. "I gave her your letter on Friday, and I haven't seen her since."

"Cool," says Adrien weakly. “Thanks for the heads up.” 

Shutting his locker, he slings his satchel over his shoulder. A tight wad of anxiety slides down his throat, settling in the pit of his gut like a cannonball. 

By lunch, Adrien is halfway committed to transforming into Chat, scheduling patrol early, and doing some romantic reconnaissance of his own. _Hey bug,_ he'll say as he leaps across rooftops beside her, _I know you said we could literally never talk about it, but how’s your civilian life been going? Written any letters? Bought any bouquets? Eliminated any potential boyfriends?_

The cloud of despondency follows him all day. His performance is abysmal in after-school Chinese, and dinner is such a long and lonely affair that he pleads with Nathalie to let him eat it in his room. Plagg beats him upstairs, flying to the cabinet and phasing through the door in search of one of his many caches of cheese. 

Adrien kicks off his sneakers and crawls onto his bed. He's given up the idea of going to patrol—if he's miserable as Chat, she'll _definitely_ notice. All he wants to do is turn off his phone and curl up in bed with Ladybug's bouquet, hugging the sweet-smelling flowers to his chest. 

"Kitten, don't be so miserable," says Plagg, from somewhere over by the wall of windows. "Look over here."

"Plagg, I know you're trying to cheer me up, but I don't want to see you juggle right now."

"Just look, Adrien."

"I'm not in the mood."

There's a loud sigh from the other side of the room—followed, soon after, by a wall-shaking crash.

Adrien bolts upright, staring in horror at the marble bust that Plagg had just pushed off his bookshelf onto the floor.

" _Why?_ " he croaks, his voice nearly breaking—and then he freezes, stunned into silence.

There’s a pink envelope taped to his window, just within reach on the flip side of the glass.

Adrien falls over in his haste to get up. He'd left his shoes discarded on the carpet, and he trips over them twice as he lunges across the room, cranking open the window and snatching the letter before a stray gust of wind can dislodge it from its seat. 

"Looks like she doesn’t care that you can’t keep a secret.” Plagg zips past as he slides to the floor. “So long as it’s _yours_ and not hers, I guess.”

Adrien can’t bring himself to speak, so he clutches the envelope to his face and shakes. 

  


* * *

  


_I wish I was more fluent,_ Ladybug writes, after he complains about his Chinese lessons in one of his letters. _All the Mandarin I know comes from cartoons and dramas. But I’ve been practicing a lot more often lately, so maybe I can talk to my family soon._

 _I’ve never been outside of Paris,_ she writes another time. _But if I could visit any city in the world, I guess it’d be Shanghai? Or maybe Milan! For the fashion scene, of course._

 _I’ve been to Andre’s,_ is written in her most recent response. _Not on a date or anything, just with friends. Don’t get me wrong, his angle is sweet, but sometimes I just want my favorite flavor?? (P.S. It’s strawberries and cream, but I guess I can’t argue with peach and mint.)_

Adrien holds onto that letter for a long time, reading and re-reading it in the darkness of his bedroom after Plagg drifts off to sleep on his chest. 

The letters never mention anything to do with superheroing—nothing about Chat Noir, or kwamis, or akumas. In fact, they seem almost purposefully mundane. No one nosy enough to read one over his shoulder would think that their sender was anything but ordinary: a girl who loved her friends and family, whose days were preoccupied by class and babysitting, whose greatest enemies were schoolyard bullies. 

Maybe _LB_ isn’t Ladybug, Hero of Paris. Maybe _LB_ is Ladybug, Parisian civilian—the girl he’s seen in flashes during their brief moments of respite, but has never been permitted to know in full. 

It’s with _that_ thought that he finds himself wandering down the Rue Saint-Honoré one sunlit weekend, peering through the windows of high-end boutiques like a little boy behind his parents at Noël. Except he’s here with Marinette—not his father, thank _god—_ and he’s more nervous than he can remember being in weeks.

“So,” says Marinette, with saintly patience, “what kind of gift did you have in mind?”

“I don't know. I’ve never gone shopping for a girl before.”

“Well, what do you want to express by giving it to her? Is it a romantic present? Or is it like... an I-appreciate-you-as-a-colleague kind of present?”

“Romantic,” he says hastily. “Definitely romantic.”

Framed by the collar of her fashionable trench coat, Marinette’s face turns pearly pink.

“It’s for the girl you were talking about last month, isn’t it? I guess she liked your letter, then.” 

“She did, but it’s—” He hesitates, tugging his collar. How can he possibly explain to Marinette that Ladybug’s love exists only on paper? That he talks to her every day, but can’t tell her who he is? That he loves her, needs her, needs to _know_ her with a zeal far beyond what reason allows—far beyond what his lady can possibly return? 

“It’s complicated,” he says lamely. “We can’t go on dates, and I can’t text or call her, and I can’t even _see_ her to tell her how much I love her, so—so I can’t screw up my chance to impress her. Whatever I get for her, it has to be perfect.”

Marinette slants him an unreadable glance.

“W-w-well, if you really want to get her something romantic, then you can’t go wrong with jewelry, right? Something small and close to the skin, so she can think of you every time she wears it.” 

“Do you think it’s okay if I get her something expensive?” he says fretfully. “Is jewelry too possessive? What if she thinks that I—“

“I’m positive it’s fine!” Adrien’s anxiety must be contagious, because Marinette looks nearly as flustered as he is.

Cheeks flushed red, she forges ahead of him, until he’s practically jogging in his attempt to keep up. Just as he’s about to call her back, Marinette jolts to a stop in front of a brightly lit shopfront, standing on her tip-toes and peering past the glass.

It’s a white jade pendant in the shape of a coiled snake, nestled on a dais of sparkling silk. The charm is no larger than Adrien’s thumbnail, its golden eyes a perfect match to the chain that vanishes into a slit at the base of the display. 

“This one.”

“A snake? Why?”

“Her zodiac year,” Marinette explains—and then colors beneath her smattering of freckles. “I mean, I’m guessing. If she’s the same age as us.”

“It’s amazing,” he whispers, looking at the necklace appraisingly. “I have the perfect pun to go on the card.” 

Marinette lets out a startled laugh. “A _pun?”_

“Did you hear about the snake who wrote a love letter to his girlfriend?” He winks, savoring her bewildered expression. “He sealed it with a _hiss._ ”

With a miserable noise, as though she’d stepped into a sinkhole, Marinette escapes him into the air-conditioned shop. 

  


* * *

  


Two days after he leaves the jewelry box on his windowsill, a candy-colored package appears on Adrien’s desk. 

The parcel looks good enough to eat: wrapped in pink paper and a cream-colored bow, a tag attached with curly red ribbon. It takes him almost a minute to undo it, his fingers numb to the tips with excitement. 

_Ludwig van Beethoven,_ it reads in red ink. There isn’t any return address.

White noise explodes in Adrien’s ears. Eagerly—careful not to tear the pink paper—he unties the ribbon and opens the box. Inside, nestled in layers of pink tissue, is a newsboy cap with a green ribbon trim. 

Entranced by its softness, he turns it over, searching for a tag inside the neatly stitched brim. There’s none, and his heart flips over in his chest.

He wears the hat the next day—and the day after that. He takes it off only when he’s in class or at fencing; but even then, it sits inside his satchel, tucked away safe from prying eyes. Ladybug might not be _there_ to see him wear it, but he can only hope that she wears his gift with as much delight as he wears hers.

Nobody says a word about his sudden affinity for head accessories—but Nino nods approvingly as he slides into his seat, and Marinette sinks behind her desk, her binder held up to hide her face.

“Adrien,” says Nathalie, when he comes home from fencing with the cap tucked down over his mussed-up hair. “It’s not good practice for you to wear clothing from other brands. It can come across to the press as advertising.”

“It’s not from a _brand_ ,” says Adrien, appalled. “I got it as a gift. It’s hand-made—look.”

He hands the cap to Nathalie, turning it upside down. But Nathalie only frowns, her lip turning downward, as she runs her thumb over the neat line of stitches.

“You received it as a gift? Who was it from?”

“Just a friend,” he answers weakly. He reaches out to take the hat back, but Nathalie has already stepped out of range.

“I’ll check with your father that it’s alright that you wear it.”

Adrien can do nothing but watch in dismay as she clicks up the stairs at the far end of the foyer. He knows for a fact that Gabriel is too busy to be bothered—too busy for lunch, too busy for dinner, too busy to concern himself with anything to do with his son. Ladybug’s gift will sit on his desk, gathering dust amidst last year’s lookbooks, until one of the cleaning staff finds it and throws it out. 

His misery over the hat lasts an entire calendar week—until Ladybug’s next letter arrives on his windowsill, accompanied by a parcel no larger than his hand. Inside is a pair of polka-dotted socks, thick and warm for the cooling weather.

 _I hope you can wear these without being **spotted,** _is written on the pink paper card inside. _Maybe we can be **sole** mates instead?_

Adrien tugs them up to his ankles and makes a burrito out of his blankets, letting himself melt into nothing but warmth.

  


* * *

  


Sometimes, Adrien’s signature bad luck takes the shape of a shoot on one of his rare free weekends. Sometimes a fall—a bad hit during a fight. Sometimes Ladybug calling to cancel patrol on a night when loneliness twists inside his chest, and the silence of the mansion fills his lungs like smoke. 

Lately, it seems to look like Nathalie Sancoeur; and Adrien is barely even _surprised_ when he opens his door to see her in his room.

“Good evening, Adrien,” she greets him mildly. He’s just about to greet her back when he sees a flash of pink in her hand, and a wave of panic overtakes him like a tsunami.

"I came in to get one of my books,” says Nathalie, “and I found this taped to your bedroom window.”

Then she just _stands_ there, awaiting his answer, her heel _tap-tapping_ on the carpet underfoot. A cog jolts loose in his shell-shocked brain, and he swallows moisture into his mouth.

"I'm part of a—" _Oh god._ "—a, um, a pen pal program?"

“Oh?”

"Yeah! It's o-one of the—one of the wellness things we're doing at school? To try and boost morale, and...defend against akuma attacks."

With a forced smile, he closes the door behind him. Nathalie's face is completely inscrutable.

"That doesn’t explain how this envelope came to be here.”

"Oh, it was probably—it was probably Chat Noir?" He props his elbow jauntily against the doorframe, hoping that his jacket hides the lump where Plagg is concealed. "He’s been walking students home—as part of the program! And I know that he…I know he helps out with some of the other activities, too."

At her frown, he bites his lower lip. Dropping his alter ego's name usually has a beneficial effect; but Nathalie, if anything, seems more concerned than before.

"Adrien, I don't think your father is comfortable with a Hero of Paris visiting the house. A perceived connection could put you at risk."

"It's not just me," says Adrien timidly. "He visits Marinette, too. He sees lots of people."

" _You_ are not the same as other people," says Nathalie, with just enough of a strident tone that Adrien hears his father's phrasing. "All it takes is one overeager tabloid, and you could become that supervillain's next target."

Adrien _almost_ laughs, at that. He couldn't have been more _targeted_ by Hawkmoth if he’d stripped off his suit and tap-danced in the nude; but secret crime-fighting identity aside, he’s been attacked by akumas more times than he can count. Ladybug's letters do more to protect him than forced isolation ever did.

But he can't say as much to his father's secretary, so he nods. His lack of emotion has the hoped-for outcome, because Nathalie crosses the length of the room and deposits the envelope into his hand.

"I'll have a camera installed by this time next week. I'll leave it to you to speak to Miss Bustier about your participation in the program."

Already plotting his next response—and the convoluted apology he'll have to include—he nods again. Satisfied, Nathalie clicks into the hall, and Adrien watches her go in silence. 

  


* * *

  


“Adrien, come on, I’m sure it’s going to be okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” says Adrien pitifully. “If I can’t get mail at school _or_ at home, then how is she going to keep writing me back?”

They’re supposed to be studying for the literature exam next week, but for once, he’s the one too scatterbrained to focus. Anxiety squats on his chest, like a crow on a carcass, and not even the threat of Gabriel’s disappointment can attune his attention to the task at hand.

“Adrien,” says Marinette, astonishingly firm in the face of his withering. “I’m sure that LB will come up with something.”

Adrien shifts his cheek into the desk and makes a noncommittal noise. From this position, he can just about read the first word in his stack of notes. Maybe he can review the text through osmosis instead of wrangling his runaway brain into cooperation.

The gentle touch on his shoulder startles him, and he starts, blinking down at Marinette’s hand.

“I promise it’ll be fine,” she says again, with far more sincerity than Adrien deserves. “How about we do something to take your mind off it? Let’s go out for coffee. After school tomorrow.”

“Just you and me?” he asks, sitting up straight. Marinette turns the color of canned beets.

“Oh—I—I m-meant with Nino and Alya, obviously! At the café around the corner? The one right next to that big billboard of yours.”

“I think I know the one,” says Adrien, curbing a tiny lick of disappointment. “Sportswear Adrien is a strong contender, but Eyeliner Adrien beats him out.”

“Fragrance Adrien is _my_ favorite.”

“That shoot was the worst _._ My sinuses were clogged for _days.”_

“Mm, well, come on down to earth with the rest of us unphotogenic mortals.” She picks up her phone and starts to text. “Tomorrow, okay? I have some extra credit to do after class, but I’ll meet everyone else at the café once I’m done.”

Soothed by the comforting thought of her presence, Adrien picks up his pen and pulls his notes towards him.

  


* * *

  


“So,” says Nino, “did you manage to work it out with—with, uh, whoever you were writing to?”

Legs tucked beneath him, Adrien hums.

“She was dropping things off at my house for a while, but Nathalie found out about it, so now I’m back to where I started.”

“Yeah, man, I don’t envy you. Having a secret girlfriend must really suck.”

“I don’t know if she’s my _girlfriend,”_ he cuts in quickly. “I mean, we’re just—I don’t wanna assume—”

“Hey, I get it,” says Nino easily. Sunlight glints off the frames of his glasses, and the shadow of the leaves shifts subtly over his face. “This would literally be so much easier if you could just meet up and talk face-to-face.”

The irony, thinks Adrien, is that he _does_ meet up with Ladybug. He talks to her most nights—and some days as well, on the rare occasion that she’s not rushing after a fight. But it’s impossible to learn _anything_ about Ladybug’s civilian life with the barrier of two ticking timers between them. Whatever rules apply to Chat Noir, they don’t seem to apply to the boy behind his mask.

“Alya says she’s en route,” says Nino, thumbing through texts on the screen of his phone. “Do you know what you want to order? I might get a place in line.”

“Whatever you think is good. I’m not allowed sweets at home.”

“Three thousand calorie crepe it is,” says Nino, and vanishes through the open door of the café.

Without his friend to use as a shield, Adrien hunkers down on the bench in an attempt to hide from passersby. It doesn’t exactly help that he’s sitting directly opposite to an enormous billboard featuring his own face, hair artfully tousled and lip pushed out, Photoshopped collarbones peeking out from the low collar of a black and orange basketball jersey.

Sportswear Adrien. One of regular Adrien’s _many_ nemeses.

His attention starts to slide away—and then snaps back to the billboard, honing in to a laser point.

Stuck to it, right next to Sportswear Adrien’s face, is something small, square, and pink.

_No._

_**No,** _he thinks in disbelief, scrambling to his feet and shading his eyes against the sun. _**Absolutely**_ **__**_not._   
  
But there it is, plain as day, impossible to ignore now that he’s finally caught sight of it: a pink envelope five meters off the ground, taunting him from its lofty position directly to the right of his own airbrushed nose.

God, it’s _only_ two stories up. What’s a couple of stories to Chat Noir, Hero of Paris? Granted, he can’t transform in public—but there’s a _perfectly_ placed tree whose branches are level with the loft where Adrien’s billboard is located. 

Whatever is in that letter, it must be important.There’s no other reason Ladybug would have left it here.

(Or maybe—just _maybe—_ this is some kind of test. Maybe part of Ladybug is just as frightened as he is: frightened that all their warm conversations are nothing more than ink on paper; frightened of their friendship vanishing from between their fingers; frightened, more than anything, of loving her too deeply—of loving her too _desperately_ , for all that they stood to lose.)

((Maybe this is what she’s been waiting for all along—the chance to see Adrien take a leap of faith.))

Darting a look at the glass doors of the café, he spots the red flash of Nino’s cap, bobbing and weaving amidst the afternoon crowd. There’s half a dozen people standing in front of him. Adrien can _definitely_ be back on the ground by the time his friend comes out with their drinks.

 _Easy peasy, camembert cheesy._  
  
Tongue dry with anticipation, he tightens the straps of his satchel, steps across the sidewalk, approaches the base of the tree, and—

  


* * *

  


“I left you alone for five minutes,” Nino hisses. “ _Five minutes, Adrien!”_  
  
Adrien can hear him pacing below, but he doesn’t dare look, lest he let go of the branch supporting his weight. He’d never thought he was afraid of heights—the opposite, really; he _loves_ being up in the sky. But apparently, the only way he likes it is with a magic stick and a magic suit between him and ignominious death by gravity.

 _The more you know,_ he thinks, a little dizzily, as he adjusts the envelope inside his shirtfront.

“You know there’s an upstairs floor, right?” Nino is saying. “You know you could’ve just come into the cafe and used the second story balcony, _right?_ ”

“No, and you telling me that _now_ doesn’t help. But don’t panic, okay? I’m not gonna fall.”

The pacing stops, and he hears Nino inhale.

“Adrien, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“But like...a friendly, best-bros kind of ass-kicking, right?”

“Whatever. I’m gonna go get help before your dad sues me for child endangerment.”

“Don’t,” he says hastily—because the thought of facing his father is actually _worse_ than the prospect of suffering a major concussion. “Just give me a second. I can make my way down.”

With a bit of shimmying, he manages to edge backwards until he reaches the relative safety of the trunk. From there, it takes the better part of ten minutes to slide down the tree: hand over hand, foot over foot, clutching with his knees like a drunken monkey.

“There,” he croaks, as his feet hit the ground. “No harm done.”

Nino glares at him, radiating a degree of parental disappointment that could send Gabriel Agreste running scared for the hills.

“Happy now?” he asks—and wow _,_ that _is_ good. Adrien is semi-sure he’s about to be grounded. “Was getting that letter worth risking your life for?”

Adrien hesitates, and Nino yanks the brim of his cap down over his face. 

“You know what, don’t answer that. Sit down and eat your crepe. Maybe I can rip out the grey hairs you gave me before Alya and Marinette find their way here.”

“I’m just—“ He points meekly at the door of the café. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom first, is that okay?”

“You’re going in there to read it, aren’t you?”

Adrien feels his face turn pink. Nino throws up his hands in response, nearly scattering their desserts over the bench.

“Fine! _Fine._ I literally despise you.”

“You love me,” he whispers, and beats a hasty exit into the café before Nino can make good on his earlier promise.

Inside the stall, sitting on the toilet lid, he slides out the single sheet of stationery and smooths it across his legs. 

_Dear Adrien,_

_This will be my last letter to you._

The adrenaline empties out of him in an icy rush. For an instant, he can’t force himself to keep reading. The entire world has gone cold around him, and his ears are stuffed with wads of cotton. 

_I’ve put this off for as long as I could—maybe because I was nervous, or because I was so afraid of disappointing you. But I’ve thought this through as best I can, and I don’t think it’s fair to continue this way. Especially for you; you deserve to be in love with someone real; not with words on a page, or a dead person’s name._

The more he reads, the more his gut sinks, until the bottom of his stomach falls out altogether. Suddenly, he regrets that Plagg is asleep in his backpack. The perfect silence of the stall is deafening.

_I’ve attached something for you—one last gift. I hope you’ll accept it. With love,_

No signature. Adrien creases the letter along its seams and holds it gently in his lap, taking deep breaths to try and steady himself. He’s closer to crying than he has been in years, and Nino will almost certainly notice if he comes out of the bathroom red-eyed and quiet. 

Numbly, he massages the envelope in his hands, feeling out whatever it is that Ladybug has left for him.

It falls into his lap, nearly startling him to his feet. A little cardboard sleeve no larger than his palm, in cream-colored cardstock, with edges etched in gold. He doesn’t recognize the logo stamped on the front.

Inside is a rectangle of laminated plastic; emblazoned with the same logo, and trimmed with the same pattern of twining golden leaves.

 _Leonard Bernstein,_ is written on the inside cover, in a wholly unfamiliar shorthand script. _**Room number:** 325\. **Check out date** : N/A. _

For a minute, Adrien stares at the inscription stupidly, the baseline of his heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

Then the breath shatters cleanly out of his chest. The whiplash catches his side like a sword-stroke, cleaving skin from sinew from gleaming bone, and all at once, he's undone entirely; every soft, seeking part of him trembling in place. 

(Leonard Bernstein, classical composer.)

(Conductor, author, activist, and pianist.)

(Initials LB, just like all the rest.)

_Only someone like you would know that._

A hysterical little laugh squeaks out of Adrien’s mouth, bitter relief mixed up with delight. He pulls up his knees and hugs them to his chest, but the laughter keeps coming, in gasps that sounds like sobs, until it chokes off into soundlessness, leaving him shaking. 

_You deserve to be in love with someone real._  
  
But in this very moment, the world cracked open around him—the whole of him fissuring with the force of his wonder— _real_ is so close that Adrien can almost touch it.  


  


* * *

  


The Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie is quiet when he steps inside, and Marinette is behind the counter, plating a tray of apple turnovers. When she sees him, she freezes—and then grins with all her teeth out, lifting her hand in a nervous little wave.

“H-hi, Adrien. What can I get you?” She peeks into the display case as he approaches the counter. “W-we don’t have any quiche today, but these tarts are fresh out of the oven, and—”

“That’s okay, I’m not here for pastries.”

“Oh.” Her eyes are round as coins. “Then—did you want to talk about something else?”

Slowly, Adrien approaches the counter, propping both elbows on the shiny-topped display case.

“I came by to say thank you,” he says at last, in a voice too soft for the empty shop. “You've put up with a lot from me lately, Marinette. I would’ve been totally lost without you.”

Marinette turns her attention back to her pastries, the nervous set of her shoulders slackening. 

“Why would you thank me? LB fell in love with you all on her own.”

“That’s not true,” says Adrien firmly. “After all, there’s only one way she could have known that I was going to be near the café that day.”

She freezes anew, statue-stiff. Her cheeks fade from pink to bloodless white.

“It explains a lot, honestly. I never figured out how she got my first letter—the one I threw out in the classroom that day.” Shyly, he scratches the back of his neck. “It was you, wasn’t it? You pulled my poem out of the trash.”

“So you know?” asks Marinette, her body very still—her eyes fixed to his with breathless anticipation, a strange mixture of fear and hope. Adrien lifts his gaze to hers, tracking every shift in her expressive face. 

(What he _knows_ is that he’s madly in love with the girl who swung across Paris to leave letters at his window—the girl who ran the length of a city block to buy him flowers during her lunch break.) 

(A girl who prefers pink roses to red, who buys black coffee at the Méricourt café, who speaks broken words to her uncle overseas—who’s braver on paper than she is face to face.)

(A girl who would give herself away in an instant, if only he asked— _Marinette, is it you?_ )

The temptation is so strong he can almost taste it. He lets it simmer on the tip of his tongue—and then, at last, he swallows it down, into a belly full of secrets that he still has to keep.

“There’s only one explanation, isn’t there?" he lies. "You know my admirer. The two of you are friends.”

Dead silence falls over the bakery, and he holds his breath, awaiting her answer. 

“ _Friends?_ ” says Marinette, momentarily bewildered—and then, suddenly, her nervousness evaporates. The look on her face transforms it entirely; like a window cracking open, letting in the sun. She doubles over the counter in a fit of laughter; and something _thuds_ in Adrien’s gut, as though he’s dropped a dumbell into the pit of his stomach.

“Yep,” she says, once her humor eventually subsides. “We’re friends. You caught me. I’m the one who delivered your poem.”

“Yeah?” he says quietly. “How did you know who it was for?”

“ _Black hair_ and _bluebell eyes? Who you are beneath your strong disguise_? It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? Call it a lucky guess.”

If he could tell the whole truth, then he would say this: laughter looks better on Marinette than heartbreak. It makes him feel closer to her, to have moved past their misery together, as though his bones had broken and regrown to be stronger. Smiling, he reaches into the pocket of his overshirt and fishes out the room key, in its little cardstock sleeve.

“I’m going to see her tonight. This was in the letter that she stuck to my billboard.”

Marinette doesn’t look surprised. Instead, she steps away from the counter and ducks through the door between the shopfront and the storeroom. When she comes back, she’s holding a white paper box wrapped up in a glittery spray of ribbon.

“A swiss roll cake,” she explains, standing on her tip-toes to hold it out to him over the counter. “For your meeting tonight. It’s one of her favorites.”

“Marinette,” he says softly, “thank you so much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Marinette; and this time, her smile is far more natural. “If this is what makes you happier than anything else—knowing I had a hand in it, it’s all the thanks I need.”

What is he supposed to _say_ to that? His tongue is tied into knots. Confronted with Marinette’s beaming face—with certain proof of her affection—all he can do is nod, struck mute.

As always, she’s gone too quickly to catch. With one last wave, Marinette slips away, picking up the tray of neatly arranged pastries and vanishing out of sight, into the back room of the shop.

  


* * *

  


Ladybug’s choice of hotel is a sleek modern building with neon-lit windows and a street-facing façade, a few minutes’ walk from the Jaurès metro station. It’s dark by the time he arrives, having snuck out of his room and de-transformed in a nearby alley. The double doors open into a polished chrome lounge, and Adrien slips inside as smoothly as a shadow.

His pulse pounds madly, clamoring in his ears, as he crosses to the elevator on the far side of the lobby. Soft as silk, its doors slide shut behind him. His tongue is too dry for swallowing to wet it, and though the elevator ride is only a few seconds, it seems to last a hundred years. 

At last, on the third floor, at the end of a winding hallway: Room 325.

Adrien’s heartbeat crashes against his ribs. He suddenly feels naked, the corridor yawning around him, the roll cake clutched against his pattering chest. The last of his bravado falls away from him like a sheet, pooling in tatters around his ankles.

He knocks, once, and waits for an answer. 

“Come in.”

Her voice is soft, but _devastatingly_ familiar—only a little bit muffled by the thickness of the wall. Adrien’s fingers morph into wood. The keycard almost slips from his grasp as he fumbles it out of its cardstock sleeve, sliding it into the card reader next to the door handle.

A quiet _click,_ like the ticking of a clock—and then it swings open to allow him inside. 

He doesn’t see the room so much as he sees the person in it. Technicolor radiance in a world full of grey, like seeing in color for the very first time: bright red suit and deep black hair, golden skin and flushed pink cheeks, a flash of white at the hollow of her throat.

 _My lady,_ he almost says; and then— _Marinette._

Ladybug turns to face him with those blue, _blue_ eyes—bluer than any words of his could capture—and a brilliant grin transforms her face.

“You got my message,” she whispers then—low like a promise, and just as sweet. “I’m so glad you finally made it."

Adrien stutters—laughs a little—and takes his first step forward into the room. 

“I’m glad, too,” he whispers back, and gently shuts the door behind him.


End file.
